Summah Summah Summah Time
2003-06-22, 5:59 p.m.

Sweet Holy Cowpie. Can it be? And here I've been building an ark these last 92 raining weeks.

But it's true. Summer, in all her glory, is, at last, upon us. Here's how I know:

--My freckles: A problem. They lay on top of each other, make sweet love, and then, have fife thousant offspring. And if you're imagining cute little freckles across my nose, wipe that image from your mind PRONTO. Hideous, I tell you. Hideous. I really should be a dermatologist poster girl. "Look away, children! That poster is rated X for perverse freckling." I am pretty positive that I have more freckles than there are stars in the sky. I'm like the Elephant Man, except that I am the Freckle Girl. I just might have to shave my skin and start over.

--The Barby: When the summer months roll around, there's pretty much nothing that I won't try to prepare on the grill. Grilled cheese? Can do. Coffee? Comin' right up. Cereal? No problem, let me just turn the gas on. Last night, shrimp on the grill with cucumber salad.

--Salad: that's the other thing. I'm waiting for Matt to ask when we can stop having a salad of some sort. Fruit Salad. Caesar Salad. Chicken Salad. Shrimp Salad. Raspberry and Mango Salad. Potato Salad. Cucumber Salad. Tomato and Onion Salad. Tuna Salad. Whateversinthefridge Salad. I can't help it. I went to the Farmer's Market and now I have more fresh fruit and vegetables than I know what to do with. But I don't mind. Especially when there's cantaloupe where each bite is a spoonful of sugar. Sheesh, it makes the medicine go down, in the most delightful ways. Delish! I mean it. Yumminess. To. Die. Fer.

--My Hair: Normally, like hay. Attractive, I know. But now, after all the chlorine and sun and whatnot? Hi, it's as fragile as butterflies wings in the desert. I dare not run a brush through it for fear that I will be lathering SPF 93 on my skull for the rest of the summer. My hair is drinkin' up moisturizer like Kitty Dukakis used to take to rubbing alcohol. But to no avail. Deep Conditioners. Leave-In Conditioners. Bacon Fat. Lard. My hair scoffs at them all. Alas.

--Time: Why am I in my pjs and it's still sunny out? Did I slip into an astral projection machine and land in Alaska? We're having like 19 hours of sunshine. I'm not complaining, mind you. It's better than the 19 hours of rain previously, but frankly, I'm just confused. I can't get a handle on the time. Back in my clubbing days (those two weeks), I was fine with the idea of walking around at sunrise. But now, either I'm going to bed and the sun is shining or I'm up partying and the sun is shining. Will I come down with darkness deprivation?

--Da Belly: red fat looks better than white fat, says I. But understand, I think the last time my stomach saw the sun was 1988 Spring Break in Cancun, where I was so out of my skull, I didn't know any better and lost my self-respect with my bags at the airport. But now, Damn! I sure am a Gringo. Actually now: me Red-man. The belly, it burns.

Ah well. Have pity on the chubby, freckled, brittled-haired red girl eating a honeydew whole. It's summer.